


Mr. Flibble

by DownOnThePharm



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownOnThePharm/pseuds/DownOnThePharm
Summary: When he was infected with the holo-virus that sent him temporarily insane, why did Rimmer come up with Mr. Flibble?





	Mr. Flibble

**Author's Note:**

> From a Facebook discussion of a photo of Chris Barrie posing with everyone’s favorite penguin puppet.

Safely tucked away in his garden shed hideout, Arnie carefully placed the last stitch in his project and tied off the thread. “There,” he said to himself. “That should do it.” He held up the little ball of black, white, and orange fluff and examined it with a critical eye, approving of his own neat stitches and, he thought, rather good craftsmanship. “Yes, I think you’ll do nicely.” Laying the small bundle back down on his lap, the child briefly rummaged through a box of scraps he had salvaged over the years from his brothers’ discarded toys. He chose a red bow with tiny white polka dots, most likely from one of Howard’s much-abused teddy bears. “This will look smart on you,” he told the fluffball as he sewed the bow on. “I do like a nice bow tie.” After adding a pair of large googly eyes, Arnie pulled the bundle over his thin hand and gazed solemnly at it.

The penguin puppet gazed back equally solemnly.

“I shall call you Mr. Flibble,” Arnie said. “How do you do, Mr. Flibble? Would you like to be my new friend? I would introduce you to my teddy bear, Patton, but I’m afraid Howard got hold of him and tried to flush him down the loo, so he’s in no state to receive company.” The boy sighed sadly. He missed Patton terribly. He had been distraught to find the little bear crammed into the toilet in the boys’ bathroom, urine-soaked and torn from being used first as a football and then as a urinal by Howie and his horrid friends. He and Dungo had tried everything they could think of to restore his beloved companion, but to no avail. Arnie hadn’t bothered to tell his parents, as painful experience had taught him that he would only be scolded and quite possibly beaten for not caring properly for his toys. Instead, he had carefully wrapped Patton in one of his threadbare blankets and hidden him away in the attic where the others wouldn’t find him.

As he had very few toys, and no other stuffed animals, the lonely child had keenly felt the loss of his little confidante, and soon resolved to make a new friend somehow. He had reasonably good sewing skills for an eight-year-old, taught to him in secret by a sympathetic maid so he could keep his shabby, hand-me-down clothes in decent repair. He also had bits and bobs of fabric he’d been collecting with a vague idea of making a quilt someday, because he found touching the soft material comforting. _I could make a new toy,_ he’d thought. _Maybe a funny little penguin, like the ones in my animal book. Yes, I think I’d like a penguin._ With Dungo’s help, over the next several weeks Arnie had worked on his penguin whenever he had a spare moment and managed to elude his family. He had originally planned to make a stuffed toy, but soon found the project to be frustratingly beyond his skills. Dungo had gently suggested a hand puppet instead, which was much more satisfactory. Now, at long last, Mr. Flibble was complete. 

A rare smile lit up Arnie’s face as he talked to Mr. Flibble. “Don’t worry about my brothers,” he assured the puppet. “I’ll protect you from them. They won’t hurt you - I won’t let them.” He cuddled the penguin to him, vowing to be lifelong friends. To conceal the little penguin from prying eyes, he sewed a bag of red and white checked gingham, and would tenderly tuck him away when they couldn’t be together. 

Over the years, the little puppet proved to be a lifeline for the sad little boy. He confided all his secrets and troubles to Mr. Flibble. He would sob into his fluffy fabric after suffering yet another beating at the hands of his brothers. He’d confess to stealing scraps of bread from the pantry when denied food by his father, and would pretend to share with him. He told Mr. Flibble about the shame he felt when Uncle Frank had mistaken him for his mum. Nothing was secret between them. 

Even in adulthood, Arnold took comfort in talking to his penguin friend. Mr. Flibble was privy to his deepest, darkest secrets. He was confessor, comforter, and companion. At the moment of his death, the last image that went through Rimmer’s living mind was that of his faithful companion, and his last conscious thought was an unspoken apology to his penguin for not having had the opportunity to say goodbye.

Soon after the quarantine incident that nearly tore apart the tiny Red Dwarf crew, Lister asked his bunkmate, “Why do you think your smegged-up brain came up with that stupid penguin puppet, anyway? You must have been sick to think that ratty thing up, man.” Although he was long accustomed to their rows and to Rimmer’s temper, Lister was shocked by the sheer ferocity of the hologram’s verbal attack on him, and couldn’t understand why Rimmer refused to speak to him for weeks. 

Twenty-odd years later, when the newly returned Ace, once again Arn, sat on his old bunk cradling a small black, white, and orange bundle to his face while weeping into its fur, Lister understood.


End file.
